


clever got us this far

by fellowshipper



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, FrostIron - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-08
Updated: 2014-04-17
Packaged: 2018-01-18 15:20:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1433281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fellowshipper/pseuds/fellowshipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony's heroic jaunt into space didn't go so well (and that's saying something, given that expectations were low anyway when he had a nuke on his back). Loki's defeated walk back into Asgard somehow managed to go even worse (and that's saying something too, given...well, Loki). When their paths intersect again, it's on a frozen, barren wasteland meant to be punishment for one and salvation for the other. Too bad neither of them knows which is which.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> I've been affectionately referring to this as the "adventures in Jotunheim" story for a while now. You'll see why soon. More tags with more appropriate warnings will be added as needed. This might also (re: likely will) get bumped up to explicit, but we'll leave it at M for now and see what happens.
> 
> For those who are curious, the title is from "The Package" by A Perfect Circle, otherwise known as the band providing the soundtrack to every frostiron story I will ever write.

Tony had never seen his life flash before his eyes. He’d had a depressingly high number of near-death experiences over the years, some born of his new role as a “hero” and others born of youthful stupidity, and not once had he ever seen a slideshow of his life’s greatest hits. Was the entirety of his existence so bad and so meaningless that it didn’t merit a highlight reel before he clocked out for the final time? He didn’t expect a bright light and harp-playing angels to greet him into the afterlife, but a _little_ transition between life and death would have been appreciated. That was how the brain was supposed to work, wasn’t it? That was what he’d heard, anyway, that the mind treated itself to a nice little acid trip while it shut down and turned the lights off on its way out.

Anything, really, would have been better than suffocating darkness. It should have been comforting in a very twisted Freudian way. The invisibility and utter silence besides his pulse echoing in his ears should have been reminiscent of the womb, or so he tried to tell himself with the part of his brain not shrieking in panic. Ash to ash and all that.

But all Tony could feel was cold fear spreading from his stomach and up into his throat to choke him.

The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him was the explosion blooming over the Chitauri’s mother ship, eerily quiet as it consumed everything around it. _No one can hear you scream_ , Tony thought grimly.

Then the blackness descended and Tony was left with nothing but the sensation of free fall as he drifted backwards. The momentum of the flight and the ejection of the missile had more or less canceled each other out, denying Tony the push he needed to make it back through the portal.

So this was how it ended. No villainous maniac to gloat over his body. No mournful children and grandchildren to gather around his bed in the nursing home (not that that one was ever really an option). No, Tony Stark was going to asphyxiate and spend the next several thousand years floating as another piece of frozen space junk until he finally fell out of orbit and crashed through the roof of some poor bastard’s house.

Okay, that was actually kind of funny. At least he would die as he lived: a victim of his own poor judgment and cracking bad jokes the entire way.

As he’d done so many times before, Tony closed his eyes and let himself fall.


	2. and tricky got me in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We all have blood on our hands and debts to pay. Some of us just have more than others.

Seemingly the whole of Asgard had gathered into Gladsheim, every citizen standing shoulder to shoulder and jockeying for a better spot from which to view the spectacle unfolding before them. In a society used to stagnation and a status quo which persisted for many thousands of years, any kind of change was met with both excitement and uncertainty. A member of the royal court being brought to trial was rare enough that it would have drawn a crowd regardless of the exact circumstances; that it was a member of the royal family, the distrusted second prince who had briefly reigned in the All-Father’s stead before falling into the Void and coming out the other side broken and mad, assured that the great hall would be filled to bursting. 

Odin sat in the high seat at one end of the hall, decked out in full regalia, his stern face set in resignation to his dire and unenviable position. 

Thor entered the hall at the opposite end, his infectious, youthful buoyancy replaced by a young man who stood tall despite the burden recently placed on his shoulders. The last time he’d walked the aisle with his people’s eyes on him, he’d encouraged their raucous cheers and led them in celebrating his greatness. He had been a boy, fed tales of his own superiority his entire life and ready to claim the throne he saw as his due.

He moved now with a very different kind of confidence, a quiet self-possession that could only be forged through tremendous personal struggle. Though he nodded and smiled faintly here and there when an especially loud member of the audience cried out to him, his procession was a solemn one with none of the arrogant playfulness of before. 

He took his place on the second step of the dais, just below Frigga, and he did not watch as the enormous doors opened again to admit the prisoner and his entourage. 

All noise in the hall ceased, broken only by the occasional cough or wail of a child. An einherjar captain lead the dreary parade with his eyes locked straight ahead. The soldier directly behind him carried a heavy chain connected to the severe-looking cuffs fixed around the prince’s neck, leading him as one might any common beast. Similar thick cuffs bound the prince’s wrists in front of him. A central chain connected them to the shackles around his ankles. More chains wrapped around his waist, the leads held by soldiers on either side. Yet more einherjar filled out the rest of the contingent, all tense and alert to the smallest hint of struggle from their captive. 

And there in the midst of all of it was Loki Odinson, clothing tattered, armor tarnished, pale skin mottled with bruises and cuts in varying stages of healing, but undeniably regal and haughty as ever. 

If the manner of Loki’s return was designed to shame him, he did not show it. Back straight, head held high, he proudly met the gaze of anyone brave enough to look at his face, even with the grotesque device covering his mouth. Though the shackles limited his gait, he still moved with an easy, natural grace. 

A child’s shriek of “traitor!” echoed through the room, effectively breaking the stunned silence the crowd had fallen into. The first volley was launched, paving the way for the audience to vent its long-brewing displeasure with the lesser prince. Not even Frigga’s look of concern or Thor’s fingers drumming restlessly against Mjolnir’s hilt could stem the tide of vitriol as it washed over and broke against the stubborn rock that was Loki. 

Loki himself, meanwhile, stopped in his tracks to survey the crowd, eyes narrowed. The guard just behind him shoved him hard between the shoulders with the blunt end of his spear to prod him along like a farmer wrangling an unruly cow. Showing irritation at his predicament for the first time, Loki reeled on the guard, jerking his other handlers out of formation in the process. The offending guard reacted with keen reflexes honed through countless battles by striking the edge of the spear into the tender juncture between Loki’s neck and shoulder. Loki immediately sank to one knee, eliciting a mixture of cheers and stunned gasps from onlookers. 

Frigga surged forward, oblivious to Thor’s efforts to hold her back. Skirts swinging with the quickness of her movements, she stepped between Loki and the guard to grab onto the staff. The startled einherjar froze, eyes widening beneath his golden helm.

“You will not strike him again.” 

“My queen, he is a hostile prisoner—” 

“He is my son,” Frigga shot back, all the quiet fury she kept hidden suddenly exploding out of her. The guard flinched and looked uncertainly at his captain, who in turn could offer nothing but a slight nod. 

‘He is my son,” Frigga repeated, softer this time, as she spared a glance down at Loki. He did not meet her gaze, prompting her to straighten her back as she returned her full attention to the guard. “And I am still your queen. Until that is no longer true, you will obey me when I give you an order. And I am ordering him not to be mistreated. Is that understood?” 

The guard swallowed hard and nodded, then dropped into the customary half-bow used when addressing the queen. The rest of the contingent followed suit with a clamor of metal armor and weapons. 

Frigga reached down to lay a hand on Loki’s shoulder and help him to his feet; he turned his head and angled his body away from her, closing his eyes against the scandalized whispers from the crowd. To shun one’s mother was already suspect; to shun one’s regent was a much graver offense. 

Face drawn in regret, Frigga pulled her hand back and squeezed her fingers into a loose fist, then relaxed and returned to her position between Thor and Odin.

The rattled guards stepped back into formation and continued their trek through the hall. They came to an abrupt, practiced halt at the foot of the dais, bowing again and rising only when Odin bade them to do so.

One bang of Gungnir against the floor was all it took to bring the crowd’s noise to a stop. Imposing as ever, Odin sat rigidly atop his throne and let the full weight of his disapproval settle into the gaze he leveled at his estranged son. Loki, to no one’s surprise, held his ground. 

“Remove the muzzle, that the prisoner may speak in his own defense.”

Thor stepped forward this time, unspoken but visible apologies bright in his eyes. Loki tensed, his own eyes becoming dark slits as Thor reached forward to take hold of the ends of the device against his cheeks. He hadn’t seen how the muzzle was crafted, but he trusted the Man of Iron’s smithing abilities.

That, he realized, was a mistake. 

Loki grimaced as the bit was pulled away. The metal arms left behind angry red indentations on his cheeks, but what made Thor go still and almost drop the muzzle was seeing just how it was held in place: a smooth, sharp metal spike curved inward from the center to pierce a hole clean through Loki’s tongue. Smaller barbs lined the inner edges to catch on Loki’s lips. Given the open and healed wounds scattered around his mouth, they had done their job well. 

“Loki,” Thor whispered, slowly pulling the muzzle away and staring in horror at the blood that followed. “What happ—”

Loki spat directly into Thor’s face, blood and saliva creating a thick glob of liquid that clung to Thor’s beard. Several members of the crowd yelled for Loki’s immediate execution, though their cries dwindled back into reluctant silence when Odin held up his hand. 

“Enough, Loki.” 

Loki dragged his tongue over his lips, smearing blood over them and the front of his teeth. He watched Thor resume his place atop the steps, then turned a vicious grin to Odin. 

“Forgive me, All-Father. How rude of me not to offer you first blood.” 

He spat again, another blob of reddened saliva landing just short of Odin’s feet. A collective gasp tore through the crowd. Loki’s smile widened as a zealous spectator jumped the barricade to rush him. Loki spread his hands as far as he could between the cuffs in a blatant taunt, then laughed as two guards not charged with holding his chains grabbed his would-be assailant under the arms and hauled him out of the great hall. 

“Take the lie smith’s head!” the man screamed, struggling without success to break free. “All-Father, I will pay the weregild with my own life if you will grant me the honor of ending the traitor’s scheming!”

Loki, who had been watching the ordeal with some interest, turned to face Odin. “You should listen to him. That’s a fair offer.”

The man continued to kick in protest as he was removed from the hall. The doors closed behind the trio with a solid, resounding thud.

“Loki Odinson,” Odin began, the deep timbre of his voice calling all eyes back to him. Loki raised his eyebrows.

“You would dare address me thus? After everything?” 

“Silence yourself, or be silenced.” Odin shot a pointed glance at the muzzle still in Thor’s hand; Loki set his jaw and, for once, obeyed. “Loki Odinson, you have been brought before your king to answer for a multitude of crimes, each more grievous than the last. You granted entry to Asgard’s sworn enemies and led them to the royal vault, directly contributing to the needless deaths of two brave einherjar. You then allowed those same enemies entry again, this time endangering both monarchs. You assaulted the noble Heimdall and the crown prince, going so far as to attempt his murder when he was been naught but a faithful brother and friend to you.”

A disapproving whisper moved through the crowd at being reminded of Thor’s near-death at the hands of his own sibling. Loki, meanwhile, met Thor’s eyes and smirked. 

“You stole the Casket of Ancient Winters and turned it against another realm, nearly destroying it and its people—”

“As does the father, so does the son,” Loki interrupted. “After all, you did leave unfinished business.” 

Odin ignored him. 

“After causing the destruction of Bifrost, you then set eyes upon Midgard, a realm of simple humans, whereupon you visited great loss and suffering on them in a misguided attempt to conquer them.” 

Odin sat a bit straighter in his chair, one disapproving eye fixed on his wayward son. 

“Does the prisoner wish to speak on his own behalf?” 

The chains rattled as Loki shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He opened his mouth, then closed it again to lick away the blood coating his lips. Thor’s cheek twitched.

“That seems to be a fairly accurate summary. I suppose this is the point at which you expect me to throw myself at your feet to beg for mercy, then?” When met only with silence, his mouth twisted into a red-tinted sneer. “I won’t beg for mercy from one who has lied and murdered to an extent I could never achieve.” 

Frigga closed her eyes and gripped her hands tightly together in front of her. 

“I find no satisfaction in this, for you remain a son of Odin still,” Odin began, speaking slowly as he seemed to gather his thoughts. “But you are henceforth to be known as an enemy of this realm and therefore treated accordingly. You may yet earn your place once more in Asgard’s trust, but your journey will be long and difficult.” 

“You presume much, old man. Why should I seek forgiveness and acceptance in a place so openly hostile to me, or from people who scorned me even from childhood?” 

“Indeed,” Odin allowed with a slow, grave nod. “Which is why further sentencing is necessary. Because you will not show regret for your actions until you see what they have wrought, I hereby banish you to the realm you meant to annihilate.” 

“I can hardly call minor damage to one city annihilation.” 

“Not Midgard, Loki.” 

Frigga turned a sharp look to her husband; Thor’s face darkened like the storm clouds which were no doubt hovering over the palace that very moment. 

The color drained from Loki’s already pale face, leaving behind a blank white canvas painted only with blood-flecked lips and wide green eyes. He took a step forward, nearly stumbling when the einherjar moved in closer to block his way. 

“Father—”

Odin held out his hand, golden light pulsing around it. Energy shot from it to engulf Loki, shining tendrils of it slithering up his arms, crawling through his mouth, and tightening against his ribs. With an aborted cry, he fell to his knees and then forward onto his hands, gasping for air as the light twisted around him. He looked up to reveal golden eyes and ashen skin streaked with dark blue veins. 

“Father, please—”

Whatever plea he had been about to make was cut off with a slash of Odin’s hand through the air. Loki screamed, an ugly, terrible noise that tore its way free as he writhed on the ground with such force that his chains pulled taut. 

“Loki!” Frigga cried, a mother’s concern overruling her sense of duty to her king. She put a hand to her heart and another over her mouth, with no effort made to hide the tears breaking over the dam of her eyelids. 

Thunder rumbled as Thor moved toward his brother. The guards not struggling to maintain their hold on Loki rallied before him, shoulder-to-shoulder in a wall Thor seemed to have every intention of breaking. 

“Yield, Thor,” Odin warned. “The pain is temporary. He will live.” 

Unconvinced, Thor remained in a standoff, knuckles bone-white as he gripped Mjolnir’s handle. Tiny arcs of lightning sparked from the head to mirror the rage in Thor’s scowl. 

The glow faded along with Loki’s screams, but he stayed folded over on the palace floor, trembling and panting harshly. For a time, all was still, the hall unnervingly quiet but for his labored breathing and the faint whispers of the audience. 

“Your gift of seith-working is a powerful one, but one you have also proven cannot be trusted in your hands.” Loki forced his head up, gold eyes back to green but burning with more hatred than ever. “Your abilities remain, but bound in such a way as to make you decide if the pain of using them is worth it.” 

Loki snarled and lunged forward, grunting when he was hauled back like a dog on a leash.

“You are to remain on Jotunheim until you comprehend the value of the lives you tried to take and the balance you upset.” 

“An axe would be kinder.” 

“I did not do this out of cruelty,” Odin replied, a somber note threading its way into his words. “Rather, I do it for love.” 

Shrill laughter erupted from Loki, half-choked and desperate. “As ever, Father, your displays of love for me are overwhelming.” 

“Were you any other, you would not be so fortunate. It is love alone which has stayed the executioner’s hand. It is my hope that, with time, you will come to understand yourself and the enormity of your many crimes. It is up to you, therefore, whether this is to be a sentence of death or not.” 

Slowly, shakily, Loki got his legs under him again, eyes set sharp as daggers when he fixed them on Odin. 

“Pretty words, but you have always been a far more talented liar than I was ever accused of being. You claim benevolence, pretend to show mercy so that the idiots you preside over don’t see you for the despot you truly are. But make no mistake, Oath-Breaker, you have passed a lethal judgment. You strip me of my powers – I beg your pardon. You ‘limit’ them – and then cast me into an inhospitable land populated by beasts who would like nothing more than to dine on my entrails.”

Grinning wildly without a trace of mirth, Loki turned his head to catch Frigga’s gaze over a guard’s shoulder. 

“When they bring back the parts of my body they can find, if they even bother to do that much, Mother, remember: your husband did this while you stood at his side.”

“Do not worry your mother so,” Odin said. “Your illusions and other defensive abilities remain unchanged. Only those skills you use to inflict pain on others have been curtailed.”

Loki opened his mouth to speak, but Odin continued on. 

“Loki Odinson, you have been judged and condemned. Your sentence will commence at the next light of dawn.

Odin stood, in turn forcing the einherjar to snap back into formation to await their dismissal. Gungnir struck the ground three times to herald the official end of the trial – and, as it happened, Frigga’s departure. Breaking protocol, she turned and walked from the hall as quickly as her legs could carry her, leaving Thor to stand awkwardly in place between his parents with a look upon his face that betrayed his torn loyalties.

Loki did not struggle as he was led away, but rather exited with the same imperiousness with which he had entered the hall. 

The doors fell shut behind him, and Odin closed his eye as Huginn, perched atop the back of the throne, let out a caw that echoed in the silence.


	3. don't need another friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were certain things that, hypothetically, if they were true, should have been happening. Like those bright lights and angels. Those should have been there. Or, given Tony’s nature, a fiery pit of despair. Had he been reincarnated and brought back as a rock? Rocks didn’t have bones that felt like they’d been pulverized or nerves that seemed to have been burnt at the ends.

Tony was not a religious man, nor a spiritual one. Never had been, unless one counted an experience on his twenty-third birthday that included some sketchy drugs and too much alcohol. He might have gotten a little spiritual then. Maria Stark had been a practicing Catholic until the day she died, but she could never get her husband or son to embrace her faith or even entertain the possibility that any kind of god existed at all. 

Still. There were certain things that, hypothetically, _if_ they were true, should have been happening. Like those bright lights and angels. Those should have been there. Or, given Tony’s nature, a fiery pit of despair. Had he been reincarnated and brought back as a rock? Rocks didn’t have bones that felt like they’d been pulverized or nerves that seemed to have been burnt at the ends.

When he woke, there was only darkness at first, the same smothering darkness he remembered from before, and—oh. Right. Bad memories.

He closed his eyes as though he could block them from his mind by refusing to look around, but he remembered. God, he _remembered_ the horror and awe and, yes, giddy excitement of rocketing through the portal. He remembered watching the Chitauri ship explode. And, because his mind hated him, he still remembered losing consciousness.

So the only logical explanation, then, was that he was dead and previous reports of the afterlife were gross exaggerations. There were no dead relatives (and Tony was grateful to not be welcomed into eternity by Howard Stark bitching at him about what he should have done differently so as not to end up there). There were no fluffy white clouds, no harps, no streets of gold, nothing but a wide open expanse of sky overhead as black as obsidian.

Well. Maybe he’d gone the other way after all.

But it wasn’t hot. Far from it, in fact, and that realization alerted him to just how very cold he actually was.

“JARVIS? A little heat in here, buddy?” It was a long shot, but he hoped the darkened HUD just meant that JARVIS was conserving power. “Jay?”

He tried to lift his arm to hit the manual release on the mask, then grunted in disappointment. No power meant no robotic assistance, which meant he was just a normal guy of normal strength inside a heavy metal suit that he couldn’t budge on his own.

“Well, shit.”

Okay. Time to assess. He was on his back, he was cold and disoriented, it was dark, and—

His breath quickened, and Tony tried to ignore the freezing lump of panic working its way from his stomach up into his throat.

Turning his head to the left, he noticed that there were still small mercies in the universe; he wasn’t in a cave. Not that he had any idea where the hell he was, but it wasn’t a cave. It was some sort of rocky outcropping with large, imposing stalagmites reaching up from the ground and forming jagged peaks. A similar set existed to the right, which meant either Tony had been lucky enough to land someplace where he wouldn’t impale himself, or someone had deliberately placed him there.

Beyond that, he was clueless. The ground appeared to be composed entirely of dark gray sand and pebbles. There were no trees, no signs of life at all, just hundreds of those pointed rocks stretching out toward the horizon in every direction. A mountain was framed perfectly between his feet when he looked down, a tiny pyramid that might as well have been on the other side of the planet. More mountains extended beyond it, once he noticed the first, but he’d seen enough movies to know to head in the exact opposite direction.

Just as soon as he remembered how to move again.

Best case scenario: he’d somehow crashed back to Earth and ended up lost in yet another desert, albeit one unlike any he’d ever seen. Worst case scenario: he was actually dying and his brain simply wasn’t as creative with scenery as it was with mechanical parts. That made sense, actually.

The sound of rocks crunching underfoot caught his attention and made him jerk his head to the right to find the source of the noise. Nothing was there but the same endless array of rocks.

“Hello?”

He’d also seen enough movies to know there was no possible way this scenario was going to end well, but what choice did he really have?

A tall figure stepped out from behind a boulder, but it, too, appeared to have been molded from the shadows. Tony could see at least that it was a biped of some kind, but it was too far away to make out any distinguishing features, even if there had been enough light for him to see in the first place. Its head and face remained hidden deep inside the hood of a cloak, and its hands looked as though they ended in thick claws rather than fingers. That probably wasn’t a good sign. Tony wasn’t positive, but he was fairly certain the fact that the creature didn’t seem to be at all wary of him wasn’t a good sign, either.

He held his breath and waited, concentrating on keeping his breathing steady. He’d met aliens before. Very recently, granted, and all of them had tried to murder him at one point, but still: first contact had been made. He could do this.

The creature took its time crossing the distance between them, finally coming to stop a few feet from where Tony lay. It tilted its head down at him like an inquisitive dog, prompting Tony to offer his finest smile behind the mask. Pepper had drilled it into his head years ago that if he smiled while on the phone, people would be more inclined to go along with whatever he said. That was a lot of crap, he thought, but it wasn’t as if he had much to lose now.

“Hey. Uh. _Parlez-vous Anglais_?”

The creature shifted just enough to reveal an entirely inhuman face, the centerpiece of which was a mouth full of wicked fangs that, oddly enough, resembled the craggy peaks dotting the landscape.

It bent, latched onto the faceplate, and ripped it off as though it had been made of aluminum foil.

Tony, to his credit, did not immediately piss himself.

Either the thing wore a black piece of material over its eyes, or its eyes were so deeply set as to be invisible. Whichever was true, only the lower half of its face was visible, and even that was mostly hidden behind a metallic device that curved around its chin and pushed thin tendrils of gold-colored metal up into the darkness of its hood. The skin below looked puckered and worn, burnt and gray. It wore some sort of armor that looked to be the same color as its skin with ornate metal detailing, and its hands—well, it did appear to have human-like hands after all, but with an extra thumb or forefinger. That must have come in handy—ha, ha, handy—Tony mused to himself.

“So I’m not from around here,” he offered with a sheepish grin. “And I’m pretty sure I can’t get cell service out here. Wanna let me know where ‘here’ is?”

The creature’s lips pulled back into a vicious mockery of a smile, and no, that was worse, Tony realized. Much worse.

It still said nothing, didn’t even make any kind of noise, and instead reached down to grasp Tony by the throat and haul him to his feet as though the suit and the human inside weighed nothing. When he was on his feet again, the creature placed its hand directly over his face. He didn’t get a chance to protest before the world disappeared under his feet and sent him falling yet again.


	4. smile and drop the cliche

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All things considered, Asgard’s holding cells had never struck Loki as being particularly terrible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a teensy tiny reference to "Yes Men" (the Sif episode) from Agents of SHIELD mentioned in this one. It doesn't spoil anything, but if you're the type who doesn't want to know anything at all about the show before you see it, consider yourself warned.

All things considered, Asgard’s holding cells had never struck Loki as being particularly terrible. He had only seen them once before when he and Fandral, the two youngest members of Thor’s group of friends, decided to sneak into the dungeons. It was their duty to find out whether or not the rumors about dragons or other vicious monsters standing guard were true, after all. 

The two of them stayed awake long after everyone else in the palace’s living quarters had retired for the night. They crept through the halls as silently as thieves, though their prize was merely a glimpse of the forbidden rather than any ornate jewel or priceless artifact. 

They got lost twice, but they eventually found the path that led deep below the palace. Loki cast an illusion of a rat to distract the first guard they encountered. When the guard stepped away to investigate, the two boys darted through the main entrance and into the hall. That was when they started to think that perhaps they hadn’t planned very well. 

There was very little light, only the flames of torches in their sconces along the walls between cells. The cells themselves were blocked from their sight by dark gray walls and heavy wooden doors that only had a tiny square cut out at eye level for the guards to check in on their wards. Adults, naturally, which meant two curious children were still left with only their imaginations to provide the details. 

There were no dragons that they could see, no old hags threatening to throw them into a stew pot, no vicious wolves, not even a spell designed to prevent them from entering. None of the rumors were true, and that was the worst part of it all. There were just dozens of identical cells that offered no clues whatsoever as to what lay beyond the doors. 

Boredom won out very quickly, sending Loki and Fandral back to Loki’s quarters with nothing but disappointment. 

When Thor and Sif eagerly begged them for stories the next day, Loki spun a wild tale about an acid-breathing dragon that nearly ended the young adventurers. Volstagg, who was older and therefore knew everything, snorted and rolled his eyes, but even he couldn’t resist embellishing when he noticed Thor and Sif exchanging worried glances. 

Loki’s mind seized on those memories as he was led from the Great Hall and down into the bowels of the palace, clanking metal and heavy boots echoing along the stone walls. The guard at the main entrance was different now, not surprisingly; Loki vaguely recalled hearing his name read in a list of the recently fallen in some skirmish with Muspellheim. He’d been forced to attend the feast to celebrate the returning victors and honor the dead, but deep as he was in the blush of adolescence, he’d spent most of his time at the banquet wooing a servant girl who caught his eye. That guard he remembered from his childhood didn’t make much of an impression, nor did the long-winded oaf reciting bland poetry about the glorious dead. Then again, nothing could compare to the pretty girl with auburn hair and eyes that lit up like fire once the two of them got away from the crowd and Loki got his hands up her skirts. 

So he didn’t expect much when, many years later, he reentered the dungeons (and Odin had always corrected him when he asked about them; “They are meant to detain, Loki, not torture.”) without a trace of secrecy. If he concentrated, he could almost still hear Fandral whispering just behind him, too excited to shut up despite Loki’s constant reminders to keep quiet. He didn’t have to sneak this time and creep along the walls to try to meld with the shadows. In fact, he _wanted_ others to see him, so he kept his head high with the same regal snobbery he’d perfected centuries earlier. 

He was marched past the first cell, then the next, then another and another, past the one with curious runes carved on the door—that one must have been Lorelei’s, he decided. The rumor was that after her last joyride through the Nine, she had been muzzled and imprisoned, left to rot in a small closet as punishment for her crimes. 

“They said that darkness and silence were the only reasonable punishments,” Amora had told him later. “But we both know better, don’t we? Can’t have a woman speaking her mind and ruling without a king, so they stole her voice and tossed her into a hole so that she could never step outside her boundaries again.” 

Amora’s relationship with her younger sister was a difficult and often brutal one, but Loki’s relationship with his own troublesome sibling had kept him from asking Amora why she hadn’t appealed on Lorelei’s behalf. 

He wondered, as the guards stopped outside what appeared to be his cell, if Thor would appeal for him. 

The two einherjar at his sides held fast to his chains while the one in front let go of the lead and opened the door to the cell. Blackness threatened to swallow them all, save for the faint light in the hall glinting off their armor. One of the guards at the back of the group walked forward with a torch in hand, which he then touched to another torch Loki hadn’t even noticed on one side of the cell. The tiny room lit up just enough to make out basic shapes: four walls, a cot, a basin with a pitcher of brackish water, and another, smaller basin in an opposite corner. 

“If I were you, Lie-Smith,” the einherjar captain began as he unfastened the _leash_ at Loki’s throat, “I think I should rather do anything to keep from going to Jotunheim.” 

Loki looked down at the thick length of steel coils the captain laid in his hand, then back up with a raised eyebrow. 

“Valhalla is closed to you,” the guard continued, nodding at the others to unhook the chains at Loki’s waist. “You might as well make a less painful exit.” 

“Your concern is touching,” Loki replied dryly. 

With all but the restraints on his ankles and wrists removed, the guard detail stepped back into formation and marched out at their captain’s command, and the heavy door closing behind them was nothing short of a death knell as the noise echoed in the hollow. 

Loki sat on the cot with his back to the wall, tucked the chain into an inner pocket of his coat, and waited. 

As he suspected, he didn’t have to wait long. 

No more than two hours had passed before the door opened again. Two einherjar—different ones this time—stepped into the cell and took up positions at either side of the doorway, their backs rigid and shoulders back in perfect formality. Thor, then, Loki thought, and he had half a mind to stage an escape just to be put into a more secure cell that not even the precious Odinson had authority to enter. 

With one knee drawn to his chest and his arm draped casually over it, Loki didn’t bother looking up from where he still sat on the cot, picking at a loose thread in the already paper-thin sheet beneath him. 

 “I suppose you’ve come to encourage me to throw myself at Odin’s mercy and beg his forgiveness.” 

“No.” 

Loki’s hands went still. That wasn’t Thor. When he forced himself to lift his head, he squinted against the light to see a distressingly familiar woman silhouetted in the doorway. 

“Hello, your highness.” 

Frigga tilted her head just slightly and regarded Loki with the same expression that had always made him feel guilty as a child whenever she scolded him. Of all the beings in all the realms, only she had ever been able to bring him to heel. 

“I’m not going to ask you to apologize. You would not feel it, and your pride would prevent you from admitting it in any event.” 

Loki tilted his head back, the dim light drifting in through the window overhead casting odd shadows over his face and making his features appear even sharper than they were. Even in the darkness, though, he was visible enough to flash a dangerous grin. “Then you have come to gloat.” 

“For what reason? Is that what you think?” Frigga shook her head again, a wave of long blonde hair tumbling over her shoulder as she did. Her skirts rustled as she drew closer. The torch on the wall lengthened her shadow to enormous proportions, but the flame didn’t dare gutter. It, too, bowed to the queen’s whims. 

She stopped directly in front of Loki, hands clenched before her as if to remind herself that her son was beyond her limits, even if he was just within her reach. 

“I came to ask you to keep your mind and heart open.” 

Loki snorted, eyes slanted in open derision. “Odin might have shown me greater mercy by tearing out my lungs and leaving me to hang upon the Great Tree. It’s certainly kinder than any treatment I can expect from my new neighbors.” 

A faint smile crossed Frigga’s lips. “When you and Thor were children, after Odin first showed you the vault, the two of you begged me for an age to tell you stories about the Jotnar before you slept.” 

Loki’s eyes opened wider then, but only to make it more obvious when they rolled toward the ceiling. “You’ll have to excuse me if those memories aren’t quite as fond to me in hindsight.” 

Frigga went on as though she hadn’t heard him. “Thor always wanted to hear the tales of the warriors and Odin’s bravery. You, though . . . you always asked me what the Jotnar were like, what they looked like, if they could speak and what their language sounded like—if they could think and feel. And do you remember what I told you?” 

Shoulders set back in his usual defiance, Loki sneered. “Lies, I imagine. The same as everyone else in this so-called family.” 

“I told you that, yes, they could think and feel. They could laugh and cry, feel joy and fear and sadness. Do you know how I knew that?” When met with no reply, Frigga disobeyed her own reason and reached out to curve her hand against Loki’s cheek. Her thumb swept over a prominent cheekbone while the tips of her fingers grazed the back of Loki’s jaw. She didn’t expect Loki to swoon into her hand, but she was nonetheless thankful when he leaned, barely noticeably, into the touch. 

“Because of you, Loki. Because I had seen—and still see—all those things in you. You believe the frost giants to be monsters, and so you believe the same of yourself. But I have ever told you otherwise. They and you are flawed, as is every living thing that has ever existed. But you are no mere brute, and you do yourself a great disservice to think that.” 

When Loki kept his eyes down and his mouth closed, Frigga sighed and withdrew her hand. 

“Your greatest strength has always been your wit. It’s also been your greatest enemy. You possess the most intelligent mind I have ever known. You are certainly smart enough to recognize how to turn this to your benefit. I only hope that when you do, you use that knowledge to better yourself, not to keep destroying your spirit and everything around you.” 

Silence stretched between them, years of lies and half-truths forming a bridge that neither dared to cross until Loki finally lifted his head. 

“Why didn’t you tell me? You could have—I should have known. It was my right to know.” 

Frigga’s lips pinched into a thin line. “Yes, it was. And I realize now that I should have fought harder for you, and I am so very sorry that I did not. But I was forbidden to breathe a word of it, Loki, and you must remember that Odin is not only my husband. He is my king.” 

“I am your son!” Loki exploded at last, voice cracking ever so slightly on the last word. The moment was gone as quickly as it arrived, however, as he seemed to regain his composure and then lean back against the wall, lips curling into a bitter snarl. “Or does it only suit your purposes to say as much before a crowd so that you can play the role of the innocent mother?” 

Before she could stop herself, Frigga reached out to grasp Loki’s chin firmly in her palm, forcing him to meet her eyes as she did when he was a child and trying to keep from looking at her. Just as he did before, he went still and fearfully quiet. 

“You _are_ my son, Loki. Whether you believe it to be true or not, whether you distance yourself from your family, that remains the same. I did not give birth to you, but I have loved you nearly since the day you were born. I have dried your tears and laughed at your jokes. I have taught you, guided you, as best I can.”   
  
And, just as then, Loki tried to squirm away, only to be brought back into compliance when Frigga’s hand tightened around his chin.  
  
“I comforted you in the night when you woke from a frightening dream. I tended to you when you were ill or hurt. I encouraged you to continue your studies and your sorcery when others belittled you for them. I taught you how to read and write, and I taught you how to wield a dagger. Do not ever doubt that I am anything less than sincere when I say I love you, and that I still consider myself your mother.” 

When Loki made a second attempt to duck his head, Frigga allowed it. 

“You’ve no idea how I mourned for you when I thought you lost. When I sensed that you were still alive somehow, but in pain, and scared, and desperate—” It was her turn for her voice to break, and she took a moment to refocus before going on, her hand trailing lightly through the locks of dark hair hanging limply across Loki’s shoulder. “I nearly went mad myself. Those . . . those creatures that held you where you landed – I can’t close my eyes without seeing them, without seeing you injured and ruined.” 

Loki’s entire body went still as stone, eyes fixed on a crack in the floor as his mind raced in circles. She had seen—she had been there. Somehow. Vague memories returned to him, nightmares he had tried unsuccessfully to push aside, dreams that came with terror and blood and left him with broken screams and trembling hands. 

“You were there,” he muttered more to himself than to Frigga. “I thought I was—” He cut himself off before he could finish that embarrassing thought. Whether he thought he was hallucinating or dreaming, the implication was still that he had been weak and pitiful, no more than a child crying out to his mother in a desperate moment. 

It was the last time the Chitauri dared touch him. After days—weeks, months, centuries, what did it matter?—of endless and increasingly sadistic torture, supposedly all in the name of finding the limits of this odd human-like being that crashed onto their miserable little rock, Loki finally broke. He had been burned alive, frozen, dissected, electrocuted, drowned, beaten (and the beatings were almost a mercy by then), carved open and strung up by his own intestines, kept alive only by a Chitauri healer or some especially cruel perversion of “luck.” 

The latest experiment—well, the details didn’t matter. It always ended with him dead or dying and praying to an unknown source that it would be the last time. Whatever had happened, he remembered that it ended with him sprawled on the ground, jagged rocks cutting into his already much-abused skin. Blood poured into his eyes and obscured his vision, but unfortunately not enough to hide the sickening vision of his own torso split open, ribs standing out bone-white and bloody and so very fragile as they tried to guard his heart. Not that it would have mattered, he knew, not with other organs so badly damaged and the punctured lungs that he could already sense filling with blood. 

That damned healer crouched nearby, chittering to its brethren in whatever tongue they called a language, and watched its prey. Loki didn’t bother wasting precious energy to curse it. 

To his left, from nothing, out of the air itself, came a blinding, glaring light that coalesced into a form he could only see from behind. It was female. He could tell that much. Delirious as he was with pain and blood loss, he could almost fool himself into thinking it was one of the fabled Valkyries come to put him to rest at last. Or maybe one of Hela’s handmaidens. At that point, he didn’t care which. Neither did the Chitauri, it seemed, as they hissed and shrieked and tried to shield themselves from the light. One brave creature tried to attack the visitor, only to howl in pain the instant it made contact. That was all the warning it got before it and the dozen creatures gathered around it disintegrated into fine points of golden light. 

“Do not touch him again,” the woman ordered in a deceptively familiar voice, and, oh, how merciless fate could be, Loki thought, that it could send him a Valkyrie with his mother’s voice. 

And her hair. 

He gasped, choked on the blood rapidly pooling in his chest, and tried to gather the strength to reach out to her. All he managed was a strangled “mamma” and half a sob when she began to turn to face him and give him a glimpse of his would-be savior. 

Then the light vanished, and Loki pretended not to notice the tears streaking his temples as he stared up at a starless sky and waited for yet another death. 

The Chitauri healed him, but they were awed by the visitor—and fearful, apparently, because the experiments stopped, and the Other found him shortly afterward with an explanation that he had heard tales of a strange being who fell from the sky and had even stranger abilities. 

“You were there,” Loki repeated, blinking against the onslaught of unwelcome memories. Frigga’s hand went still for half a heartbeat, fingers caught in a tangle of curls. 

“Yes. It took all my abilities to project myself so far, once I found you, and even more to attack from such a distance. It nearly took my life.” Her fingers combed through the tangle and went on with their journey. “I would have given it gladly if it would have ended your suffering and brought you home.” 

“You knew where I was.” This time, Loki’s voice was cold and accusing. Frigga sighed. 

“I cast myself there as soon as I detected you. As I said, it was . . . difficult. I was unconscious for several days. By the time I awoke and was able to send aid, you had already gone to Midgard and come back into Heimdall’s view.” 

“But you _knew_.” Loki bit off the rest of his words, squeezing his eyes shut and jerking back away from Frigga’s touch. “You’ve eased your conscience and said your goodbyes. Now leave me.” 

“Loki—” 

“I said _go_.” 

She hesitated, then nodded once and took a step back. 

“Be safe, child. And know that you are in my heart, always.” 

The copper taste of blood coated Loki’s tongue as he sank his teeth into it. He would not speak. He would not cry out to her again like some pathetic little boy clinging to her skirts and begging her to make the monsters of his imagination go away. 

Her shoes padded softly against the stone floor. There was a rap on the door, then a shaft of light across the ground as a guard let her out, and then only darkness and the maddening quiet again. Still, Loki refused to look up from the same cracked stone he’d been watching for the past minute. 

Defeat, he noticed, tasted something like copper.


	5. eye on what I'm after

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last completed chapter before I started posting this, so the update schedule (ha...schedule...) will be dodgy at best from here on out. I'll try not to go longer than a week between posts, but work/life/LEGO Marvel sometimes gets in the way.

Cold. Sore. Nauseous. Mostly cold.

Tony was getting a little tired of waking up like that.

If he really was dead, God or whatever deity had taken him was a real dick, he decided when he came to yet again. And if he wasn’t dead—well, whatever. He’d figure that out later.

Movement took far too much effort, even without the suit—wait.

Startled, Tony looked down and saw that he had been stripped down to his flight suit. After a few seconds of frantic searching from where he sat, he noticed the armor broken down into pieces and heaped in a pile a few feet away. Circuits were pulled free from the casing and the metal was bent and torn in ways that suggested forceful removal, and Tony shuddered.

Okay. So still cold. Even sorer than the last time he woke up. Whatever food was left in his stomach was making a valiant effort to crawl back up his throat.

There were images in his head—images he didn’t remember, but which seemed more like memories than just hallucinations. He caught a glimpse of a roaring fire and strange creatures gathered around it. Then there was a bloodied spear. There was pain blossoming from somewhere in his thigh. There was—God—there was _water_ in his lungs again. He felt dull blades under his skin, pulling it free and discarding it like so much useless chaff. Ash on his tongue, flames in his eyes, sizzling electrical current crawling through his body—he heard himself scream and then sob when inhuman hands settled on his chest and knitted him back together.

With a start, Tony shook his head and blinked, willing his heart to stop thundering quite so loudly in his chest before it gave away where he was.

“The hell is going on?” he groaned, bringing his hands up to scrub at his face and stopping short when he realized they were chained to something. Blinking to try to help his eyes adjust to the barely-there lighting, he looked down to see delicate silver thread looped around his wrists and drawing back somewhere behind him. When he tried to follow it, he realized he’d been bound to a slab of blue-black stone that felt inexplicably cold through the flight suit’s material. The thread wound its way around his torso in three equidistant loops, glittering against the black cloth under it.

So he’d been subdued by, what, Mithril? He tested the strength of the cords, straining against them and getting precisely nowhere. It didn’t look strong enough to restrain a kitten, much less an adult human, but it only seemed to get tighter the more Tony struggled.

Such a material would come in really useful the next time an Asgardian or similarly powerful alien showed up and threw a temper tantrum, Tony thought, but that was assuming he could suss out the materials used and in what quantities and then synthesize it. And _that_ was assuming he lived long enough to gnaw his way free.

Wherever his earlier visitor had taken him, it didn’t seem to be far. There were still jagged rocks everywhere, still a mountain chain in the distance---closer this time, but still quite a ways off—and still utterly cloaked in shades of black and less-black. The rocks themselves offered the only helpful light, each one having dozens of miniature iridescent stones embedded in them that glowed with a faint bluish light. Together, they at least put off enough light that Tony could see a few feet in any direction—except directly behind him, thanks to the boulder propping him up.

“If this is the part where the kidnapper starts making threats and ransom demands, I’m awake now,” Tony announced, and he was proud that his voice didn’t waver.

No answer.

“Come on. This is just rude.”

A shadow crossed his peripheral vision, drawing his attention to his right and forcing him to notice the same creature-alien-thing he’d seen earlier. Whenever that was. It stalked around a short ledge and stopped in front of Tony.

Then it spoke.

Or at least that’s what Tony _thought_ it was doing. Its mouth opened and noises came out—raspy, guttural noises—but it certainly didn’t sound like any language Tony had ever heard.

“Wait,” he interrupted, squinting up at the creature. “Wait, wait, wait. I don’t understand.”

The creature paused, seemingly annoyed at being cut off in the middle of whatever it was saying. It took a step forward, hand outstretched, and Tony reflectively sank as far back against the rock as he could get. He didn’t get far.

The hand slid over the top of Tony’s head as subtle pressure for a few seconds, and then Tony’s entire brain felt as though it had been lit up like a bonfire. He screamed before he could stop the sound, sagging against his restraints and squeezing his eyes shut as though that would actually help.

Images tore through his mind at such a rapid pace he couldn’t identify any single one. Calling them images might have even been generous, but he didn’t know how else to interpret them. Impressions, maybe? Abstract hints at larger themes and ideas? He saw a blur of stars, of alien beings of every conceivable shape and size and color. Underlying all of it was a dull, monotonous hum.

“Oh, God,” Tony moaned, attempting to sink down to get away from the hand atop his head, only to have the creature bend and grab him by the throat to hold him in place.

_Such simple creatures._

Not a voice, exactly, but the droning noise in Tony’s head solidified into the _suggestion_ of a voice and comprehensible words. Tony cringed and tried again to turn his head. The creature’s hold tightened.

_You do not deserve the power you wield._

The impromptu slideshow faded, leaving only the “voice” behind—and the unnerving realization that Tony was no longer alone in his own head.

“What the _hell_ —”

_You do not speak my language, human. This is how we will communicate._

Tony shuddered, bone-deep and even more nauseated than he already was. Some years previous, he had met Charles Xavier at a conference and pestered him until the mutant agreed to read his mind just to satisfy his curiosity. And sure, the speaking-directly-into-his-brain part had been weird for Tony, but he’d done enough recreational drugs in his younger days to not be overly alarmed by hearing voices.

But this . . . this was _not_ telepathy, not as far as Tony could tell, anyway. There was no distinct voice to indicate a separate identity with its own thoughts and its own unique presence. Whatever this thing was doing, it felt like it was rearranging parts of Tony’s brain to make itself understood. It was still Tony’s mind, still Tony’s thoughts, but they all felt like the thin veneer over someone—or something—else’s consciousness. Like Tony’s body was no longer his own, like _he_ was the one invading, and—no. Not good.

“Where am I?”

_It does not matter._

“Like hell it doesn’t. I’m guessing it’s not Earth, though.”

The creature gave that cold imitation of a smile again, and Tony looked away.

_You were brought here to serve us. That is all you need to know._

“You at least gonna tell me your name and buy me dinner before I ‘service’ you?”

There was another pause, and this time Tony looked up to see the creature staring at him, apparently lost in thought.

_My name may not be spoken without the cosmos trembling in fear._

“Wow. And people call me a drama queen.”

_You may call me the Other, if you must._

Yeah. Nothing sinister about that at all, Tony thought, but he kept that to himself. “Okay, so Mister Other. What am I—”

 A jolt of pain shot through Tony’s skull and raced down his spine, driving the words and all thoughts of ever making words again right out of his head.

_You speak too freely. Be silent, and listen._

Unable to do anything else, Tony nodded.

 _You fought against the legions under my command. You were even foolish enough to bring a weapon into the heart of my army. Fortunately, we can continue without a heart._ The Other’s hand loosened around Tony’s neck, then moved down to trail one clawed finger around the outline of the arc reactor. Its hand curled around the metal under the thin cloth of the flight suit.  _Unlike you, I would presume._

“If you want me to be good for anything but a good-looking ornament strapped to a rock, you should probably leave that right where it is.” The claws slid a little deeper under the casing. Tony set his jaw and stiffened his back, refusing outright to show fear even when the metallic tang of panic flooded his senses.

The Other nodded and removed its hand from Tony’s chest. _Agreed. Tell me, human: have you any idea the sort of power you hold inside your fragile chest?_

“It’s called an arc reactor. Only named the single-most important technological innovation of the century so far. It’s kind of a big deal.”

 _Your technology is primitive._ Tony huffed, offended, but he didn’t get a chance to work up a truly indignant rant. _The useless shell you so adore—the godling infused it with greater power than you could ever hope to comprehend. Even the smallest amount of the Tesseract’s power is far outside what your pathetic mind can fathom._

Tony went stock-still, forcing himself to swallow despite his throat having dried up in the space between words.

_The scepter we put in the godling’s hands was crafted millennia ago with but a fraction of the Tesseract’s raw power. Both artifacts were scattered at opposite ends of the universe, thought to be lost. But we found the scepter, and it called to its maker._

Tony stopped breathing completely when the Other used the hand on his head to tilt his head back, forcing his gaze upward.

_And the Tesseract calls to us._

After licking his lips and trying desperately to not shut down completely, Tony went on with his usual bravado. “That’s great and all, but I don’t see how this involves me.”

The Other frowned slightly, obviously irritated that it had to spell everything out. _The scepter was meant to lead the little god to the Tesseract. He used it on you. I can sense its power in you, locked away in your little trinket. The Tesseract longs to be whole again, so it seeks its components, no matter their location._

“You want to use me as a homing beacon.”

_The godling was weak and promised much, but delivered nothing. He was warned that he would be punished for his failure. You will lead us to the scepter—and to him—and we will find a new champion._

The thing about Tony was that, despite being brash, he had one hell of a poker face. He hadn’t some time ago, but he learned very quickly after assuming control of Stark Industries that the board would run over him completely if he didn’t put up a front of utter calm and control. He was a twenty-one-year-old kid who had never faced any kind of responsibility in his life up until then, so after those first few disastrous shareholder meetings when it became clear he had no idea what he was doing, he set about building another personality. There was Tony Stark the playboy, and then there was Tony “I will rip your balls off and feed them to you if you fuck with me” Stark—and that second persona was a direct result of those formative months as CEO.

So he knew how to bluff, and he knew how to keep his emotions to himself when doing so worked in his favor. And the Other, for however mysterious it thought it was being, was giving away far more than it likely intended.

It and its subordinates—and maybe its master, if there was one—didn’t know what had happened to Loki. Neither did Tony, to be fair, but he had every reason to believe Loki had been defeated as soon as his army fell apart.

They assumed that Loki still had the Tesseract, or, at the very least, the scepter. There was no guarantee he still had either of those things. If he truly had been defeated, then it was very likely he’d been stripped of every last scrap of metal or anything that could even vaguely resemble a weapon.

If Loki was still on Earth, Tony could tell his new teammates of his orders and get backup. If he was not on Earth, the only other logical solution would be if Thor had taken his delinquent brother back to wherever it was they came from. Not Tony’s ideal landing spot, but there had to be some advantages in landing on a world that bred powerful sorcerers and superhuman wrecking balls alike.

“All right. So let’s say this works. You get your hands on Santa’s surliest elf. Then what?”

_Then we will break his bones and then his spirit, and he will bleed and beg for mercy that he will never receive._

“Yeah, that’s great. A little more vivid than I was looking for, but whatever. But no, I meant what happens to me? And where do you go from there?”

_Your fate is not my decision, nor is it my concern. You have been most resistant, but know that your assistance would not go unrewarded._

And non-cooperation wasn’t an option. Tony knew that one already.

Wait.

“Resistant?” His brow creased, and he drew in a sharp breath when he felt flames skimming his arms. He looked down and saw nothing, just terrifying glimpses courtesy of his own mind (or memory, as he had a sinking feeling). “How long have I been here?”

The Other patted him on the head like a beloved but especially stupid dog. _Long enough. Your mind is returning to you. I thought perhaps it had been damaged too badly, or that perhaps I had overestimated its ability to repair itself._

Tony’s stomach lurched again. That was neither an answer nor anything remotely like what he wanted to hear. How long _had_ he been there, then? What had happened? And most importantly, why couldn’t he remember any of it but little snatches of memories that were all the more frightening in what they hinted than what they actually revealed?

_I am offering you your only opportunity for survival. Were it left to my master’s whims, you would have been left to die in the void between worlds, not brought here and given another life._

Tony’s fingers curled into his palms until he felt the sharp bite of his nails.

_Help us, human, and we shall help you._

Even though he wanted nothing more than to drink himself into a coma (or, preferably, wake up and find out this entire situation was the _result_ of too much drinking), Tony offered up a crooked grin, one which the Other returned after a moment. He’d had this conversation before, too. _He says for you to start working immediately. And when you’re done, he will set you free._ Tony hadn’t fallen for it in his first hostage situation, and he damn sure wasn’t going to fall for it the second time.

“So that’s it, then? I do my magic-assisted GPS thing, serve Hamlet up to you on a platter, and we go our separate ways?”

The Other nodded slowly, so Tony turned up his grin into a thousand watt killer smile, the kind that had landed him the military’s biggest contracts—and the kind that had landed him the most desired women on the planet.

He remembered going numb with shock and watching his own blood soak the ground beneath him, and he remembered wishing his vocal cords hadn’t been severed so that he could tell the thing that kept bringing him back to life to just _stop_.

He couldn’t remember how long ago that had been.

“Then I’d say we have a deal.”


End file.
